


Such The Joy It Brings

by VEHollis



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cookies, Danger, ElderShipping, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, Masara Town | Pallet Town (Pokemon), Self-Indulgent, Snow, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Winter, no beta we die like people who die without a beta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29481447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VEHollis/pseuds/VEHollis
Summary: Valentine’s Day in Pallet Town--but it means nothing until Mother Nature uses a blizzard to bring two longing lovers together. Indulgent Eldershipping fluff.
Relationships: Hanako | Delia Ketchum/Ookido Yukinari-hakase | Professor Samuel Oak
Comments: 9
Kudos: 6





	Such The Joy It Brings

**Author's Note:**

> hello, friends.
> 
> the poem interspersed throughout this fic is the sonnet that Vivaldi wrote to correspond with his violin concerto, "Winter" from The Four Seasons. the links include a link to Patrick Stewart reading the actual portion from that movement and the concerto performed in a badass version by Nigel Kennedy. if you can figure out how to loop each movement, go for it. they are super short and i am super wordy :(
> 
> this is marginally a valentine's day fic and i am a day late. sorry. please read it anyway.
> 
> this is also my first ao3 fic and i don't understand the formatting. you may see updates as i figure it out.
> 
> i fell back in love with eldershipping over the last year, when i had time to watch the source material (new and old). the eldershippers always had the best fic and art and everything else. this is a self-indulgent love letter to them. i hope you enjoy.

_[To shiver icily in the freezing dark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4kPty0dCEGg),  
in the teeth of a cruel wind,  
[To stamp your feet all the time](https://youtu.be/d2XM1EMzaWs?t=1918)  
so chilled that your teeth chatter._

The local radio station is adamant: the blizzard is coming, do what you can to hunker down for a couple of days while the worst of the front comes through.

Samuel has learned how to tune the scare talk out over the past 25 years. They live in the mountains; of course there’s going to be snow, and it’s never more than two feet during “the big one.” Whatever the amount, there’ll be enough time for the town crews to clean it out after a day or so. 

Yet something inside him--trainer’s instinct, years of life experience, perhaps just something unnatural about the slate color of the sky--makes him pause. 

After a moment, the first phone call he makes is to Delia. She is a woman completely alone, after all, especially since Mimey is in Vermillion with Ash. There’s no need for her to be on her own, even if this ends up becoming the same run-of-the-mill snowstorm they get every winter in Pallet Town.

No answer. Where can she be?

Not that she can’t take care of herself, and it’s silly for him to think she can’t. At this point, she could run the whole damn town without breaking a sweat. Still...

Samuel shrugs into his winter coat, much warmer than his lab coat, and heads towards the smaller house just to the right down the walk. A layer of snow already covers the ground from last week’s precipitation, making him glad he wore his boots.

She has been his student and his friend for many years, he tells himself, and this is why he’s concerned.

The snow starts to fall as he knocks on her door. “Delia? Are you home?” The wind is cold and unforgiving, and he pulls the coat tighter as he waits for a response.

As he waits, he thinks: _I need her warmth._

He always has. But he especially needs her today. The real danger in winter is a cold heart, and it feels wrong to have a cold heart on Valentine’s Day.

There’s no answer after three minutes, and after a quick glance toward her garden to make sure she’s not there, he pulls the key to her house from his pocket and opens the door.

“Delia,” Samuel calls as he enters, “are you home?” Where could she be? The thought that she may be out in the cold already, hurt and unable to get help, drives him mad, and he’s ready to pull the town apart to find her.

Fortunately, a voice answers from upstairs. “Hello? Professor, is that you?”

“Oh, thank goodness. Yes, it’s me. I called and you didn’t answer, so I got worried. Are you all right?”

She comes down the staircase in her bathrobe, with a towel around her head. “I’m so sorry I missed your call. I figured I’d better get a shower and shampoo in before the pipes have an excuse to freeze. Is everything okay?”

Delia is darling in her robe, innocent and free, and Samuel is reminded why his feelings are so strong. “Well, you’ve obviously heard about our winter event. I came to invite you up to the lab while it passes through.”

“Oh, Samuel. That’s kind of you, but you didn’t have to do that. I’ll be okay. It’s just a couple of days, right?”

He should have known: she wouldn’t think anything about it, being more of a Pallet Town native than he is. “Sorry, it’s not negotiable. I don’t want you down here on your own, especially since you don’t have Mimey with you. Come on up to the lab until the town has a chance to clear everything out.”

The towel slips from her head, leaving a portion of her auburn hair glistening. “I don’t want to impose… are you sure?”

“ _Yes_ , Delia,” he laughs. “You’re no trouble at all. Pack a bag and come with me. I have plenty of room, and you’ll be some company for me.”

“Well, if you insist… I’ll even bring some extra goodies for us to enjoy. Can you run out and cover anything in my garden that isn’t covered already while I do? The burlap and rocks are just outside, you know where they are.”

He’s happy to help keep her herbs and vegetables as protected as he can, so he hurries out to cover whatever seems as if it won’t survive. Samuel’s heartened to hear that she expects him to know what to do, but the truth of it is, he has no earthly idea. He’s smart, just in other ways that don’t involve green thumbs. But he covers everything exposed with the burlap as she suggested, puts the rocks down to hold the coverings in place, and eventually everything appears safely swaddled against the coming storm.

The wind has picked up over the course of his work, and he pulls the lapels of his coat closer to keep the air away when he returns to the house. “Ready?” he calls as he enters the back door.

“Almost.” A small suitcase waits in the living room, but her voice comes from the kitchen. “Just grabbing some of my ingredients and implements.”

Samuel should have expected that she would bring her entire kitchen to him. Another thing she certainly doesn’t need to do, but he knows she’ll do it anyway. 

This is how she cares. Another reason he needs her warmth.

Delia eventually tucks an extra bag of sugar into the second suitcase and gives one more look around. “All right, I think I have everything. I don’t have a problem coming back for it if I need it, though.”

That defeats the purpose of her going and will probably be unnecessary. Samuel knows better than to argue with a woman on a mission, though, and he makes a mental note to persuade her against it if she tries anything.

She forwards the home vidphone to her cell phone, makes sure that all the taps have a small drip and that the lights are all off. “Let me roll this one,” she says. “It’s the one with the eggs. It’s a heavier one anyway, and I don’t want to aggravate your back.”

“Eggs? What are you trying to do?”

Her smile is mischievous. “You’ll see when we get there. Would it surprise you to know I’ve put everything I need in for some Brunswick stew?”

Goodness. She could have asked if he had some of whatever she needed. It's not like his pantry’s empty. But that’s her way, and he loves her for it.

Delia locks her doors, and they’re on their way, suitcases in hand, rolling along the snow packed lane. His suitcase is in his left hand; hers is in her right. As they walk, they slowly draw closer to each other, not holding hands, not even touching, but close enough to where their coats gently brush, to where their hands could almost caress if he were just brave enough.

“Mother Nature certainly knows her business, doesn’t she?” he says, with a nudge to her side. “A Valentine’s Day snowstorm!”

Delia laughs. “Oh, how funny! We’ll have to see how many babies come along in, what, November? I’m betting five.”

“You’ve forgotten that the Harris twins are now married. I say seven.”

“You’re so right! Twins run in that family. I ought to bump my guess up to nine!”

They giggle, and he remembers how much he likes to make her laugh. Her laugh is rich, full of heat and humor and love, and it brings him such joy.

“Although I hope,” he teases, “that I’m not ruining any of your torrid Valentine’s Day plans by stealing you away.”

Her snort is more delicate than she intends.

“What? You haven’t got a sweetheart? Some man who wants to run away with you?” He’s pretty sure she doesn’t, but just in case.

“The only sweetheart I have is in Vermillion.” Her cheeks, already pink from the snowflakes and the biting wind, grow darker. “Besides, you’re the one coming to take me away. Aren’t I the one interrupting your rip-roaring social life? Where’s your sweetheart?”

Gary’s probably the closest thing he has to a sweetheart at this point: how he’d laugh if his grandfather tried to call him one! But no real lovers for Samuel Oak, and perhaps that’s the main motivator for having her at his lab during the storm--he truly doesn’t want to be alone.

And they are friends, absolutely, but he’s not ready for that level of honesty.

So Samuel smirks. “Gary’s still in Hoenn, if that’s what you’re asking, and he would disown me if I called him anything other than my boy. As for everything else… I’m currently walking next to my rip-roaring social life. And see how intelligent I am? I’m making sure my entertainment is safe and sound and available. I’m bringing it to myself.”

She wrinkles her nose at him. “Goober. I might have come anyway if you’d given me the chance.”

That makes him pause. They come up to the lab’s grand staircase in silence, snowflakes dotting their hair and clothes.

“I wonder,” she finally says, as they begin their slow, bumpy rise up the stairs, “if you’ve ever stopped everything else in your life long enough lately to open yourself up to the possibility of having a love for Valentine’s day.”

The suitcase rolls more efficiently than he expects, giving him time to actually think about what she’s asking. His marriage was well as long as she was alive, but that’s been six years. Everything else has been cold, clinical.

Except for the woman by his side at this moment.

She’s had even more years to make him happy than that through her friendship. She’s brought him food and information and an ear when he needs it. She’s traveled with him, made shared friends with him, helped him discover more of the sublime parts of their world. Not to mention all the ways Ash has brought meaning and purpose to his life and his work, all as a result of her upbringing.

Delia’s brought him warmth and care and joy, on almost every level, and she probably doesn’t even know.

But she’s looking at him, those big, mahogany eyes expectantly waiting, and he doesn’t know that he’s brave enough to tell her the truth.

So Samuel smirks again over the bumping of the suitcase wheels. “No, I haven’t. That’s not the way of the working scientist, as you know well. I haven’t really thought about it, but it’s probably even worse for the Pokemon Professor of Kanto. It may be that I won’t ever have the time.”

“Wouldn’t you like to _make_ the time?”

The question is out of her mouth before he’s even finished his sentence, and he wonders.

They’re at his door before he can finally come up with an answer that satisfies him and may intrigue her.

“Naturally I’d _like_ to make the time,” he begins, pulling his keys from his coat pocket. “But the world doesn’t always work that way. Most of the time I have to be cold, clinical. It comes with the territory.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Samuel watches Delia’s face fall. What can that mean? Why does she care what he feels about anything one way or the other?

The biting wind adds an extra layer of speed to his movements. Today the weather is cold, clinical, just as he needs to be. He stomps enough to clear the excess snow from his boots, watches as she does the same.

“But,” he continues, pushing his front door open, “for those people who I can trust, my heart is not. If you’re someone I care for, my heart is warm and welcoming.”

He’s glad he turned up the heat and built up the fireplace this morning. The warmth practically burns their faces, making it impossible to consider anything else than spending a day or two in this cozy, inviting place.

“And my home is warm and welcoming to those I care for, too. Come in, Delia,” he finishes, leaving enough space for her to pass him on the way in, “and always, always be welcome.”

The look she gives him, full of gratitude and happiness and tenderness, makes him wish that he could tell her how he feels.

But Samuel merely brushes the snow from her auburn hair and repeats, “Delia. Come and be welcome.”

_[To remain in quiet contentment by the fireside](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LH5AkQ-8Whc),_

_[While outside the rain pours in torrents.](https://youtu.be/d2XM1EMzaWs?t=2122) _

Samuel came to get her at one. It takes about forty-five minutes to kick her boots off, make sure her jeans aren’t soaked and her hair is somewhat less wet, place her suitcase of clothes in her chosen bedroom, and begin unpacking her food suitcase.

All right, maybe she overdid it in bringing all the vegetables, and it doesn’t look as if she needed the eggs or the oil or the sugar. He’s fully stocked in all the things she needs to make both the stew, the bread (including yeast, and why in the world would he need meringue powder?), and the surprise dessert of Valentine’s cookies. Well, whatever, she’ll find something to do with the extras for breakfast in the morning. It’ll just be for a day or two, after all.

Delia wishes it could be for longer, but honestly, she doesn’t want to impose.

She chops the vegetables for the stew, dicing potatoes, tomatoes, onions, garlic, dropping corn in, adding the stock and barbeque and Worcestershire sauce, preheating the remaining brisket, making all the magic that she needs for the warm, cozy meal they’ll share.

“What in the world are you doing in here?” Samuel wonders, as she begins oiling a bowl and throwing water, sugar, and yeast into it.

“The stew’s on the simmer. I’m starting our bread--”

“Fresh bread?” he cries. “You literally don’t have to do all this.”

“Shoo,” she says, with a small wave of her hands. “I’ll call you when I need a sous chef. Go get on your computer or write a poem or something. I don’t do well with others in my kitchen when I’m cooking.”

She’s not being entirely truthful about two things.

Truth the first: she would actually prefer to cook with someone else in the room. Really, that’s how the Ketchum women have always functioned, and the crowds at The Pallet House bear that out. When one cooks with colleagues and friends, the warmth and connections and joy always come through when everyone gathers to enjoy the final product.

Ketchum women love through their food, and that’s why she’s determined to get this right for him.

But, truth the second: she would happily have him in the kitchen as a helper if he weren’t so damned handsome. She just likes looking at him, and that would be too much of a distraction.

She’s adored him for a long time. If she were completely honest with herself, it may have been as long as eighteen years ago, during that time when she thought she had that innocent, Growlithe love for Spencer. No, she loved Spencer, loved him as deeply as any eighteen-year-old girl could, but Samuel was always there. Always strong, and smart, and capable, and confident, a man’s man, and…

Delia kneads the dough in her hands hard, trying not to think of his broad shoulders, of his strong hands, of his brilliant mind, of the kindness in his heart that’s made him bring her here.

Eventually the bread can be popped in the oven, and it’s time for the portion of the afternoon when she actually can welcome him as a helper in her kitchen.

“All right,” she calls, her voice echoing through the walls of the kitchen, through the halls of the lab, against the windows keeping the snowflakes hitting the panes at bay. “It’s sous chef time. Come on in.”

Samuel eventually comes as she’s finished gathering everything she needs: butter, granulated sugar, eggs, vanilla, baking powder, flour. “What magical concoction do you need me to help create?”

“You’ll laugh when you hear,” she says, throwing the butter and sugar into the bowl. “Heart shaped frosted sugar cookies, to celebrate Valentine’s Day.”

He laughs, as she knew he would. “An apt dessert, and you know I love your cookies. What’s my job?”

Delia sets him to combining the butter and sugar while she measures out the vanilla and eggs. His arms are so muscular, his movements so measured, and just watching him sends a flutter to her stomach. 

“I’ve got a secret,” he says softly when she tips in the vanilla and eggs. “I can actually be _chef de cuisine_ on these.”

At this, her face begins to burn, even hotter than the oven and the heat and the fire in the house encourages. That’ll teach her to assume!

“It’s not a terribly exciting story,” he continues, continuing to mix the vanilla and eggs into the concoction. “When I was a boy, my mother and I had a twice weekly ritual. I’d come home from school, and she’d have everything set aside for us for the cookies of the day.”

The image of a tiny young Samuel, aproned up, floured hands and hair, laughing next to a taller woman, warms her heart.

“So all of the gingersnaps for you, right?” she teases, because she knows his tastes well.

His smile is boyish. “She knew I’d eat my weight in those. No, she’d change each time. One Tuesday chocolate chip, then oatmeal raisin on Friday. Then sugar the next Tuesday, and if I had been really good, gingersnap Friday. We’d put whoopie pies and other ones in the mix, too. I’ve got a pretty good knowledge base.”

Delia begins measuring out the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. “You’ve been holding out on me! Why’d you let me make them for you all these years if you could make them yourself?”

“Because I like yours too,” he answers easily, stopping long enough to head to his cupboard for a canister of brown sugar.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“Just a couple of tablespoons of brown sugar. They’ll spread better and stay softer longer, and it gives it a little bit of extra flavor.”

After a moment of hand mixing, Samuel frowns. “Well, that mix is being difficult. No problem.” He goes to pull out a smaller hand mixer, a style that she hasn’t seen in eons.

She sprinkles some flour on the countertop, then grabs her rolling pin. 

“Put just a sprinkling of flour on that too,” he says over the sound of the mixer. “It’ll keep your pin from sticking to the dough.”

“Who’s leading who here?” But the fact that he knows how to think about her world, so different from his, makes her fall even harder for him.

“It’s teamwork.” He pulls the mixer from the bowl, offers the beaters to her. She takes a tiny finger swipe to taste and realizes: _the brown sugar also gives it the tiniest of kicks._

“Told you,” he smirks, carefully lifting the dough from the bowl and shaping it into a ball.

He’s right about the rolling pin, too, and she can’t help laughing as she rolls out the first third of dough. “I should just get out of the way. Or put you on the frosting.”

He raises his eyebrows. “All right, you’re on.”

So _that’s_ why he has the meringue powder: he’s creating a royal icing within minutes. While she uses her small, heart-shaped cookie cutter on the dough, he puts together a pair of different colors of icing, red and white, a complete departure from what she had planned. “So when they come out,” he says, “You outline them all in the white, and then I’ll color them in with the red. Then we can dry them in the oven for about 15 minutes. You’ve got the warmth going with the bread and the cookies, so the preheating should work in our favor.”

Delia refuses to be mad at him for taking over, because this? This is wonderful, exactly what cooking and love should be, working together towards a common goal. Even if he’s made her feel giddy in doing it.

As they wait for the cookies to finish, Samuel dips a finger in the flour on the countertop and wipes it on her nose. She laughs delightedly at the attack and returns the favor, but he merely smiles. “Do you know what that means?”

“It means you wanted to make me look silly!”

“Well, that too. But my mother always did that while we were waiting for the cookies to bake. It means ‘good job, chef.’”

The gesture and story make her heart melt. “Whenever you talk about your mother, she sounds like a remarkable woman. No wonder you turned out so well. I’m sorry I never got to meet her.”

“I think you two would have gotten along famously. You actually remind me of her.”

Delia’s cheeks turn pink at the compliment. “I do?”

He becomes very interested in sprinkling extra water on the cloth covering the icing, to keep it from drying out. “Excellent cook. So smart. Always seeing the lighter side of things, and having the ability to laugh at yourself. Runs an organized and clean and loving home. Very pretty, with a heart as big as the sea.”

“Oh, Samuel,” she breathes, letting his words settle in the depths of her heart. “You’re so kind to say that. Thank you.”

The beep of the oven interrupts anything else she might be brave enough to say or do.

Once the cookies cool a bit, they get to work. Delia outlines each edge in white icing; Samuel carefully fills in each heart in red. She sneaks a glance at him. He’s applying the icing with great skill and care--but he’s also just slightly sticking his tongue out in his concentration. Again she thinks of a younger, smaller version of him, flour on his nose, sticking his tongue out while he creates, and she’s charmed. 

He’s older than she is. She knows it, can see it in the gray of his hair, in the laugh lines around his eyes, in the slight rasp of his voice. But those are the only places you can tell, really. Between the lab and the monsters and the trainers and the travel and the biking, he stays active. He’s always had a youthful spirit, and the children of the summer camp help bring that side of him out more. 

Even so, at one point she thought she minded that he was older; now that she’s older and wiser too, it doesn’t seem to matter so much.

“Now one more thing I have to do,” he says. “We’ve got thirty here, right? So I need to leave four for the initials.”

“Initials?”

“The finishing touch for certain sugar cookies, especially Valentine’s Day cookies. Putting our initial on a certain cookie makes it our heart. It’s our special cookie, just for us.” 

She wishes she had thought of that when Ash was younger.

Over the course of a few minutes, he signs four cookies with an S (for Samuel), an H (for Hannah, his mother), a D (for Delia), and an A (for Ash). She squeals and stops long enough to take a picture of Ash’s cookie and text it to him.

When he thinks she’s not looking, he sneaks one more away and signs it with a G (for Gary, who she is glad hasn’t been left out). Still, she needs to tease him. “Wait a minute! That gives you three! I only have two!”

“Okay, Miss Fussy, tell me the name of someone else you love. Oh, no, wait, I’ve got it!”

He signs it with an S, and her face becomes bright red. Has she been that obvious?

“For Spencer,” he says with a mischievous grin, and then his voice rises into singsong. “Somebody had a cru-ush!”

“Oh, hush,” she mutters back. “I’m sure I was a complete embarrassment to him and to myself.”

“No! It was charming. I was rooting for you to work out.”

She shakes her head and starts on the last set of ten. “It never would have. Spencer wanted a woman who was as intelligent and driven as he is. I tried, but… my talents lie more in the domestic arena.”

 _The girl who’s not smart enough to do anything but cook._ The old school taunt comes to mind, unbidden, and she ices a cookie with just a little more force than is necessary. Delia wouldn’t trade her life or the restaurant or Ash for anything. But perhaps if she had just been a bit more--

“Hey.”

Samuel’s looking at her. The understanding in his eyes is almost too much to bear. “Nothing wrong with that. Everyone needs to eat great food. And when you’re on the road, whatever you’re doing, it’s nice to know that you’ll eventually return to a wonderful home, full of people who care about you. Not everyone has the wisdom and… special touch to provide that. It’s a gift.”

The way he’s phrased it is so simple, so sensible, and it manages to bring tears to her eyes. She becomes interested in the last five cookies.

“When Ash talks about you, he gets hungry for your home cooking. Did you know that?”

Now she laughs. “Not officially, but it doesn’t surprise me. God knows he eats his fair share of it, and more of it every year. What else does he say about me?”

“Well, that you worry. But he takes that in stride. He says that’s just what moms do, and he’s right. My mother certainly worried about me, and I always hated to make her feel that way. I told him that.”

Intriguing, that somehow Samuel managed to get her child to talk about feelings. “When did this conversation happen?”

“Oh, that was a long time ago for me. _He_ might still feel like it was yesterday.”

The way he’s worded that answer is just strange enough to make her wonder--but he looks at her cookies, just finished, and says, “Oh, I better catch up to you, or these will never dry.”

It’s just as well. She supposes she had better start ladling up the stew and cutting the bread since it’s almost six.

When the cookies are finally iced and dried and cooling again, he suggests that they have dinner in the front room by the fireplace, the warmest, coziest place in the house. It’s a lovely idea, and soon they’re on the couch, food on the coffee table, enjoying warm stew and warm bread and warm company. It’s almost easy to forget that the snowstorm is still building outside, except for the faint whispers of the wind they hear over the crackle of the fire, except for the light pizzicato of snowflakes shimmering against the windows.

Then it’s cookie time. He follows her back into the kitchen to find some hot chocolate powdered mix. “Don’t wrinkle your nose,” he says, just as she’s about to do so. “It’s probably too late in the day for coffee, and tea isn’t decadent enough for sugar cookies or Valentine’s Day, and I’m not talented enough to know how to make fresh hot chocolate.”

“Hmmph. Well, we’ll let it slide tonight. But I’ve got everything I need to make it fresh, and I’ll show you how in the morning. It’s so easy.”

He opens the refrigerator. “Am I in better graces if I say I have strawberry ice cream, too?”

“Ooh, _yes_.” Her favorite. She wonders if he remembered that. “We add any more decadence, though, and we’ll gain The Snowstorm Seven.”

They settle back in the living room, five cookies, dishes of ice cream, and hot chocolate mugs in tow. If he notices that she’s moved just a little bit closer to him, he doesn’t let it show.

Her mug has small pictures of Charmander in various poses. She squints at his mug when he takes a sip. “I hate being sexy, but I’m a professor, so i can’t help it,” it reads. 

Her involuntary bark of laughter makes him jump. “What? What is it?”

“What is that mug all about?”

“What?” He stops long enough to read it, then gives his own sharp laugh. “Figures I’d grab the most embarrassing one for myself. Thank you, class of ‘14.”

“I mean, it’s not wrong,” she says before she can think about it. Then she realizes what she’s said, and claps her hand over her mouth before her sheepish giggles can escape.

Imagine that. She has the power to make the Professor blush. But he grins at her. “Flattery will get you everywhere you want to be.” Her sheepish giggles do escape that time.

When they’re done being silly, Samuel picks up his G cookie. “Okay, we have to eat the initial cookies first, because they’re the most special. Happy Valentine’s Day, kiddo,” he announces before he takes the first bite.

Delia grabs her A cookie. It feels right to close her eyes and make a wish for him before she says anything, so she wishes for Ash to be safe and warm and happy, wherever he is. “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweet pumpkin,” she says when she’s sure the wish is heard, and takes her first bite.

Oh, wow, this might be one of the best sugar cookies she’s ever made, softer and sweeter and less crumbly. She looks at Samuel in wonder.

“Told you,” he answers with a wink. “Brown sugar. Two tablespoons.”

The flutter in her stomach returns at the purr in his voice.

But he picks up his H cookie next before she can do anything. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mama,” he says softly. “Thanks for everything.”

 _Oh, how sweet._ Once upon a time, he was her little boy. She probably made a wish on his S during the journey, too. And he knows he was loved.

Does he know he’s cared for now? Does Gary tell him? Does anyone tell him how important and special he really is?

Or does he get anything more than just the adoration of a crowd that only knows him as the Pokemon Professor?

“Maybe I should have gotten you something for Valentine’s Day,” she thinks aloud.

“What?” He pokes her in the side. “Woman, you just cooked me dinner. I don’t need anything more than that, and that’s more than I deserve. That’s the way to a man’s heart anyway, right?”

“Oh, that’s nothing special.” She waves his words away. “I cook for everybody. That doesn’t mean anything. And you absolutely do deserve…something.”

Her D cookie sits on the plate in front of her.

Impulsively, Delia picks it up and hands it to him. “Here, take this.”

“That’s _your_ special cookie! That’s supposed to be for you!”

“No, I want you to have it. It’s the best present I have at hand. It’s not much, but it’s yours if you want it.”

It occurs to her: she’s literally handing him her heart. She couldn’t be more obvious and desperate if she tried, could she?

Well, maybe he won’t notice, and if he does, maybe he won’t mind. And maybe doing this will give her the courage to give him the real thing one day.

Samuel glances from the cookie in her hand to her face. His expression is… soft, tender.

“Thank you,” he finally says, taking it, his fingertips brushing hers. “I’ll take good care of it.”

They sit back for a moment. The wind picks up outdoors, the snow hits the window a little harder, but the fire still crackles loudly enough to keep the fear at bay.

He grabs his S cookie, turns to hand it to her with a smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Delia.”

“Wait! I can’t take that! That’s _your_ special cookie!”

“No, I want you to have it. I think… I think I was holding it in trust for you anyway.”

Could he possibly feel the same way about her? Would she ever be brave enough to ask?

Her hand caresses his briefly before taking the cookie. “Thank you,” she answers quietly. “I’ll enjoy it.”

They sit back again, watch the flames dance in a comfortable silence.

In the end, they divide Spencer’s S in half, since he’s friends with both of them. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Spencer,” they say together laughingly, taking the first bite. As she chews, she dares to put her head against his shoulder and is surprised to see that he doesn’t flinch or move.

But hang on. “Wait a minute,” she cries, pulling herself back up to face him. “The numbers are uneven again. You’ve had three and a half cookies, and I’ve only had two and a half. No fair!”

He snorts and reaches to settle her firmly against his shoulder again. “Oops. My fault.” His arm curls around her own shoulders, drawing her closer. “My mother did call me Spoiled Little Sammy sometimes.”

Delia nestles against him, savors the softness of his shirt and the strength of his arm and the warmth of his body.

_Today’s reminded me of what it’s like to be in love. I’d forgotten._

_[To walk on the ice with slow steps, in fear of falling;](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dwmoj32AhUs)  
Advance with care.  
[Then, to step forth strongly, fall to the ground,](https://youtu.be/d2XM1EMzaWs?t=2247)  
and again, run boldly on the ice until it cracks and breaks.  
To listen, as from the iron portals rush winds from south and north,  
All the winds in contest.  
Such is winter,  
Such the joy it brings._

Samuel sets his empty mug on the coffee table and sighs. “All right. I guess I better get one last check in around the grounds.”

“What? Now?” Delia calls from the dishwasher.

“May as well. Better now than at five in the morning.” Although if things look like they could go bad (an icy tree close to the power lines, a heavy pile of snow on the roof), he’ll probably have to do it then too.

She sticks her head around the sill of the door. “It’s so late and cold and dark, though. You can’t go by yourself.”

“Sure I can.” He pulls himself from the couch, grabs his mug, and heads over to hand it to her. “I’ve done it plenty of times before. You know that.”

“Yes, and what about that time you fell and Tracey and I took half an hour to find you? No, I’m going with you. Let me start this--”as she plucks the mug from his hand--”and grab my flashlight from upstairs. Then we’ll go.”

Okay, that hadn’t been his most graceful hour (a kudzu and vine pit overgrown), and he’d gotten a pretty good bump on the head that time. Maybe she’s right. Besides, he knows once Delia Ketchum says she’s going with you, she’s _going with you_ , and that’s that.

He hadn’t been looking forward to not being in her company for a bit, anyway. Especially after getting to hold her ever so briefly.

“Will we also have to round up the Pokemon?” she asks while he helps her into her coat.

He shakes his head. ‘Thank goodness, no. When I don’t have assistants around to help with that, I just use the system to recall all the ones who can’t handle these conditions. Any we see out tonight should be from colder environments.”

“...You can do that with the system?”

“Oh, yeah. I just fiddled with a few things on the back end.” He grins as he flips his hood up. “Don’t tell anybody who’s ever worked for me, though. Their having to do it is good for their education.”

 _How in the world did he get so smart?_ Delia wonders. But his mind has always been his most attractive feature.

When they get outside, the snow is calf high--not uncommon, but certainly higher for the amount of time it’s been snowing than snowstorms of earlier years. It’s a heavier snow, too, and not as wet as usual. They share a glance.

“I’ve never seen it get this deep this fast,” she says. “The snow from earlier in the week probably isn’t helping. This could be a big one after all.”

“We won’t go all the way around. Let’s hit a couple of areas that I know are prone to trouble in the snow, and then we’ll come back.”

They turn on their flashlights and link arms as they begin their slow, careful descent toward the wooden bridges. It takes a few moments to become acclimated to walking in heavy boots, gusty winds, and deep snow, but eventually they pick up speed.

A metal creak catches their ears, and they turn to see the windmill, rotating steadily.

“That’s about a 15-20 mile gust speed,” Samuel says. “Excellent. It’s been a while since the lab has had the chance to run on wind power. That’ll keep the generator topped up, too. But that also means the winds are picking up. I think you’re right about this actually being a big one.”

Delia holds his arm a bit tighter. “I’m really, really glad I listened to you when you told me to come.”

“I’m glad you did too. Although if you hadn’t, I would have just come back for you. Or maybe I would have just thrown you over my shoulder and carried you anyway.”

He’s joking, naturally (or is he?), but the image makes them both laugh at its absurdity and its possibility.

They proceed towards the pair of bridges just by the river. The one to the east is newer, and although it’s covered with snow, the structure seems sound. The one to the west was the first one built, and although everything looks fine, the slight bow in the middle gives him pause.

“Do you feel brave enough to come across with me?” Samuel asks. “If not, I understand. It should be fine, but I want to try it, just to be safe, for whoever or whatever else may cross it.”

Delia’s slightly afraid. But she knows he would never let anything happen to her, especially when he is right there by her side, so she nods her head and clings to him.

Their first few steps are brave, confident--but when they reach the middle of the bridge, right over the middle of the river, the wood gives a loud groan. Instinctively they freeze.

“Okay, Delia.” His voice is gentle but firm. “I want you to let go of me and slowly walk over to the right side of the bridge. Make your way back to the side we just left. Hold on to the railing as you go. If it breaks, keep your best grip on the rail and I’ll come.”

“But what about you?”

“I’m going to try one more thing once you’re safe.”

“But I don’t--” _Want you to be there by yourself if something happens--_

“Do as I say,” and his tone brooks no argument.

Obediently she steps away from him, clings to the railing on the right hand side. Is the rail shaking, or is she?

“That’s good, you’re doing fine,” he says over the wind. “Keep going.”

_Tell him now, in case something happens and I don’t have the chance--_

“Be careful, Samuel,” she calls back, because that is the best way to say “I care for you” that she knows.

He nods at her. “I will. Go now.”

Samuel watches until she’s firmly on land. He should have said “to hell with it” and gone with her, just to wipe the worry from her eyes. He doesn’t like seeing her afraid. But she’s safe, at least, and if anything happens, she’ll be safe and able to call for help.

 _Okay._ He tucks his flashlight into his coat pocket, grips the left railing with both hands, and jumps. He lands hard on the edge of the bridge, but despite this side showing the largest dip from afar, nothing happens. The bridge doesn’t shake, the railing holds firm.

Her yell is muffled by the wind and the snow. “Great! You tried it! Now get off there.”

Not quite done yet, though. Worth trying the right hand side, since he’s here.

He grabs the rail with both hands, jumps.

The wood groans, his section of the railing breaks loose from the bridge, and a small portion of the bridge gives.

A muffled scream cuts through the heaviness of the snow and wind, and he can’t tell if it’s his or hers. But the need for survival kicks in, and he scrambles until his boot can reach the part of the bridge that’s still intact, until his hands can move to the part of the railing that’s still attached.

“Give me your hand!” he hears from his left, and he flings one toward her even as his mind screams _I told you to stay over there--_

Somehow she’s pulling him toward the safer side, away from the hole and the break and the fall, and when he finally can tell where he is, Delia’s next to him, practically holding him up.

“Hold on tight to me,” she commands. “Let’s get back on land.”

Intellectually he knows he’s fine, knows it probably wasn’t as big or as bad as it felt in the moment, and that it was just a matter of water weight and rotted wood somehow. But he still clings to her, shaking with adrenaline and fear.

“Have to get that fixed, I guess,” he manages just as they step off the bridge. “Good thing I had the other bridge put in.”

But she’s whirling him to face her, and when he looks at her, her face is wet with… snow? Tears? He can’t tell.

“Don’t cry,” he says. “It’ll freeze on your face.”

“Oh, be quiet!” she cries, pulling him into her arms. “I was so scared for you! Don’t you ever do anything like that again! If something had happened to you--I’m so sorry! I felt it move and I didn’t know!”

“It’s not your fault. I’m all right.” But if it’s true that he’s all right, why can’t he stop shaking, why can’t he stop gripping her as if she’s the last lifeline he has?

At least for today, she probably is.

“Yes,” she finally says, swaying in place with him still firmly in her arms. “I have you. You’re all right. You’re safe with me now. We’re okay.”

The biting wind doesn’t matter, the whipping snowflakes don’t matter. They stand there until his quivering stops, until she runs out of gentle things to say. When they pull apart, they press their foreheads together, the heat of their breaths mingling and condensing in the air.

“Come on,” she says, pulling him by the hand toward the house. “Let’s go home where it’s warm and safe.”

Samuel shakes his head and stays in place. “No. One more stop.”

“Absolutely not. You’ve done enough.”

“One more stop,” he repeats. “The far east quadrant closer to town. There are trees by power lines there. It’s worth looking in case the town loses power.”

“ _No._ ”

“It’s safe there, I promise. It just involves a little slope. We don’t have to get close.”

Delia sighs. “All right,” she relents. “But after that, no more. And we stick together.” She grabs his hand, her fingers nimble and warm even through their gloves. “And if there’s one hint of trouble, we say ‘forget it’ and leave.”

“Okay,” he agrees, gripping her hand, his fingers strong and careful with hers.

They trudge through the grounds, clutching arms and hands, not daring to let each other go. The wind is fierce, but the earth is soft, quiet, and it feels as if they are alone in the world.

“You saved me,” he says, “and I’m grateful.”

“Well, of course I did. I always go to the ends of the earth for the people I love. You know that.”

 _For the people I love…_ She hopes he doesn’t hear her tiny gasp at her slip. But why not tell him now? What does she have to lose? Say something and lose all shame, or say nothing and lose him?

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I know.”

Because he’s seen it. She followed him to Shamouti when she thought Ash might be in danger; she followed him to Greenfield when she knew Spencer and his child were in danger. It seems he’s now a part of that highly regarded category, and the thought keeps him warm. Does she know that she’s in that category for him, too?

They reach the slope leading toward the east grounds. “Be careful here,” he says. “It’s not a steep incline, but it may be icy.” She grabs him more tightly in response, and they make their careful way down without incident.

He’d had the branches cut back about ten years ago, but the fertile Pallet Town soil and the Pokemon contacts from the preserve have made the trees grow like weeds, and the branches have almost grown back to a danger point. Although they’re frosted in ice, glimmering under their flashlights, they all look relatively stable, and barring something knocking an entire tree over, the lines should be safe. 

“I hate to cut those back. They’re oak trees, strong and mighty, of course--”

“Of _course_ ,” her echo teases, and he feels calm enough now to laugh.

“--but they really are too close, and I don’t want to give the town an excuse to fine me. I’ll have to have them come out in the spring.” He points his flashlight back toward the ground and carefully maneuvers them until they’re pointed back to the lab. “And now we’re done. Let’s go home.”

Home. A shared home. Delia loves her little house, but the idea of sharing his life and his spaces touches something within her. “Yes. Let’s go home,” she agrees, with a gentle squeeze of his fingers.

They begin their slow progress back up the slope, still being careful.

“What will we do when we’re there?” she asks. “Is it bedtime already?”

“It probably ought to be. But I think after the adventure we’ve had, a shot or two of whiskey is in order. It’ll take some of the chill off and give us a last excuse to sit in front of the fire today.”

“No champagne to celebrate Valentine’s?”

“No, we finished that after Ash’s Alola victory, remember? I should have gotten more. Whiskey will do, though. Especially tonight. Whiskey, and… I’d like you to put your head on my shoulder again, and I’d like to put my arm around you again, and have you close.”

“I’d like that, too,” she says, remembering the feeling of his arm around her, remembering how his shoulder was both soft and strong.

The world is still soft, quiet: they can barely hear their footsteps crunching through the snow.

“It feels like we’re the last people on earth,” she murmurs. “I always forget how big your grounds are.”

“For all we know, we may be. We’re so isolated out here, and it feels pretty apocalyptic.” But he nudges her side. “Nothing we can’t handle, though. We’ve lived through, what, two, three ends of the world already?”

“Danger’s pretty attracted to us, isn’t it? I wonder why?”

He thinks a moment. “I suppose,” he finally says, “we happen to know--or have created,” with a small squeeze of her fingers, “extraordinary people who get into extraordinary situations, and our senses of honor encourage us to get involved. Whether it’s good for us or not.”

Probably mostly not. But the Ketchums--both of them, now that he really considers it--have been saving him for a long time. There’s no way he couldn’t not do anything he can to protect them.

“Or we’re just really committed to making sure the ones we love are-- _oh!_ ”

Her boot slips, and suddenly she’s flailing, falling through the air, did he actually let her go--

Delia lands on the snow packed ground. She’s fallen on the snow many times before: that’s just the way it is in Pallet Town in the winter, and she’s used to it. But somehow the snow feels less hard, warmer, more yielding, comforting--

Samuel is lying in the snow, just under her body, sending clouds of vapor up from the ground with his breath as she rests upon him.

“Are you all right?” he manages. “I did my best to break your fall.”

“Yes,” she breathes. “I’m all right. I just slipped.”

When she’s looking into his face, she momentarily thinks of the Samuel from the cookie baking of earlier: boyish, young. That boy is gone now. The person she sees now is… all man, strong and and brave and confident. The man she’s always known him to be.

“What about your back?” she asks.

“It’s not pleased with me, but I’ll handle it. I’m just glad you’re not hurt.”

If this is the best way he can save her, then by God, he’ll take it. Heroism comes in all forms, both in saving from the apocalypse and from saving from a broken arm or leg.

But as she stares into his face, he sees not the wonderfully innocent girl from this morning, or from years ago. No, this is all woman, bold and brave and brilliant.

“Thank you,” she says, and the heat from her words floats into the air. “I’m so lucky to have you taking care of me.”

“I want to take care of you,” he responds, before he can stop his words. “If you’ll let me.”

Before she can stop her movement, her head dips to his, her mouth captures his in a desperate but gentle kiss.

When she pulls away, she wonders at the move she’s just made. Was it welcomed? Did he want her?

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” she says softly over the wind. “I hope it was all right.”

He can’t thread his fingers through her hair, can’t really clutch at her body because of the warm hood and the thick coat. But he can pull her head back down to his, can murmur over the howl of the wind, “Yes. Yes,” can return her kiss with equal fervor.

When he releases her, they gaze at each other in wonder.

“Help me up,” Samuel says, “and then we can go home.”

Somehow Delia pulls him up, somehow they find their footing, and although it’s dangerous to run on the snow, they find themselves running, hand in hand, toward the house.

When they get back to the house, they fling their coats off, kick their boots off, find themselves stopping to hug and kiss in the foyer. Her kisses are fierce, hungry, her hands burrowing in his hair to pull him closer; his are measured, gentler, but no less loving and passionate.

Although kissing her is incredible, and he wants to keep doing it, Samuel stops them eventually. “Come on. Whiskey and the fire.”

This time they sit on the carpet together, just in front of the fireplace, with generous shots of whiskey in hand. As promised, she leans against his shoulder, and he holds her close, his arm comfortably nestled around the curve of her hip.

“What happens to us now?” he murmurs into her hair.

Delia blinks, then laughs softly. “I don’t know. To be honest, I never actually thought I’d get this far with you.”

“You and me both,” Samuel finally says. “I mean, I never thought you’d ever see me this way.”

It’s strange for them to be so silent, especially now that they have something worth talking about. They’ve never had a problem talking about anything and everything before.

But where words fail, touch seems to speak.

He’s an academic and a poet, for God’s sake, and he usually has no problem knowing what to say when he decides he’s ready to say it. But it seems easier to run his fingers down her arm, to savor the smell of her strawberry shampoo as the tendrils run along his hands, to breathe kisses along the shell of her ear and the base of her throat and the curve of her mouth.

She’s never had any problem wearing her heart on her sleeve and letting people know it. But she seems to say so much more by raking her nails gently down his back, by sliding her cheek along his to relish the scent of his aftershave and the feel of his stubble, by grazing along his lips to taste the intoxicating mix of whiskey and him.

Eventually, she yawns against his mouth as the clock strikes ten, and that’s the signal for all beautiful young women to go to bed. Samuel walks her to the staircase, draws her close for one last hug. “See you in the morning.”

He almost leans in for one last kiss, but then thinks better of it, because she’s tired.

But Delia’s not _that_ tired, so she leans in and steals the kiss from him instead. “Good night,” she whispers dreamily against his lips, and he watches with longing as she ambles up the stairs.

She enters her chosen bedroom and tries not to think about his sleeping alone right across the hall from her.

He puts out the fireplace and tries not to compare the color of the dying embers to the brilliance of her hair.

She takes another warm shower and tries not to think about the heat of his kiss.

He takes a hot shower that probably should have been colder and tries not to think about the supple softness of her skin.

She dresses in her pink silk pajamas and tries not to think about how warm and strong and glorious he felt in her arms.

He finds his softest t-shirt and his nicest sweatpants and tries not to think about the rapture of having her in his arms.

Samuel’s just searching his bookshelves for an inspiring volume of Keats when he hears the faint knock at his bedroom door. _Oh. Am I ready for this?_

Delia’s standing there in her pink silk pajamas, twisting her hands nervously.

Outside, the howls of the wind grow stronger.

“Hi,” he says softly. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine. It’s just… I don’t know that we’re ready to help Mother Nature with her business yet, but…”

What? _Oh_ , that’s right, their conversation about babies in the Valentine’s Day snowstorm from this afternoon. He gives a little chuckle. “I think you’re right. It’s a little soon for that.”

She chuckles for a second too. “Good. But would there be any harm in our cuddling together through the night?”

He pushes his door open, holds his arms out to her. “No. I’m tired of being alone. Come and be welcome, Delia.”

She runs into his embrace, savors his strength and warmth.

He’ll carry her toward his bed, pull the covers back and invite her in.

She’ll tuck her head just under his, in the crook where his head and shoulder meet.

The wind will howl and keep the windmill churning. The snow will continue its pizzicato against the windows, alternately staccato and legato.

They’ll cuddle, and whisper, and kiss, and find the joy that winter brings together.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this, friends. if you enjoyed, please let me know.
> 
> if there is anyone left from the brigade, this is your bat signal. happy valentine's day, bbs. (apparently christmas was your holiday but i was too late for that.) come back home.


End file.
